Chapter 8: Eight Weeks

Diana's POV

Dean had my purse in his hand.

He hadn't opened it.

The folded paper was in his other hand, and he was holding it flat against his chest.

"Give me that," I said.

"Di."

"Give it to me, Dean."

He handed it over.

I put it into my coat pocket, and I looked at his face.

I had seen my husband cry twice, once in a hospital corridor and once at a graveside.

This was the third.

"Is it true?" he said.

"You read it."

"I need you to say it."

I looked past him at the cemetery gate, where a woman in a blue coat walked a small dog along the fence.

"I'm eight weeks along," I said. "I took four tests the Friday before the party. Then I went to the clinic on Sunday to be sure."

"And you came to the clubhouse."

"I came to tell you that night, after dinner."

His mouth worked.

"I bought a candle in the shape of a number one," I said. "At the drugstore. I was going to put it on a muffin and set it in front of you."

I had not meant to tell him that.

It came out in a rush, and I hated how small it sounded in the cold air.

Dean put the heel of his hand against his eye.

"Is it..." He stopped.

"Is it yours?"

"I didn't mean it like that."

"You said it like that."

"Di, I swear. I'm asking because I don't know how to ask the other thing."

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